A day in the life of
by Underwater Owl
Summary: A few centutries later Dracula has lived... and mellowed from his 'youth' what is life llike as a vampire?


The castle echoed, the only sound the audible the _drip, drip _of condensation off the gargoyles that adorned the high vaulted ceiling. The dying light of the sun shone through the misty windows, made of a glass so thick and ancientthat it looked like a fog of secrecy shielded the castle. The brilliant slit of light hovered for an instant on the horizon, and then sank, plunging the castle into a sudden and almost complete darkness. For the first time in hours, the silence was broken by an ominous creak, the sound of rusted hinges protesting their opening.

The black tinted wood of the box opened quickly, revealing the white cloth lining inside. The 7' by 2' box shifted slightly on its stone table, as its occupant sat up slowly and wiped his eyes. Grimacing to himself, the man slung his feet up over the edge of the casket, and then used his arms to push himself up and out of it. He sat for a moment, perched precariously on the side of the coffin, and sighed, a habit he had not been able to break in over five hundred years. Suddenly, his hand slipped and he fell off the side of the coffin, cracking his elbow against the table. He got to his feet and started muttering to a stream of curses;

_Prost, dracu, sângerând masÄ!_

Several candles in the room to burst into flame at the opportunity provided by the suggestion, combined with the power in his voice, burning down several inches of wax, and extinguishing them selves hurriedly at the angry glare they received. One candle cast a glowing sphere of light, and flickered dangerously.

_La Dracu!_

The last candle extinguished quickly, reflecting the venomous tone. The man sighed to himself, air rushing into lungs that had long since stopped processing oxygen. He walked towards the table with the rebellious candle, hand trailing slowly across the surface, fingers taking in the piece of paper, pen, and ornate clock and finally straying to a deep blue bottle.

Uncorking the bottle of liquid, just a little too dark to be wine, with his inexplicably white teeth, the man raised it to the air in a toast to someone only he could see, and took a long sip. His fangs clinked against the glass, and the man winced at the sound, so like nails on a chalkboard. Setting the bottle down with a light clink, running his tongue over his teeth to clean the red off them, the gentleman walked quickly across the room, his black pants rustling slightly. Approaching his wardrobe, he pulled on a thick sweater, and a pair of warm socks.

Waiting for him, pinned to the door, was a note. Plucking out the knife that held it, the man read his wife's curling script, and grimaced again.

_Have gone hunting in the forest, will be back late, I will see you later._

_Verona_

Dracula narrowed his eyes in exasperation as his arm bent unpleasantly, while he groped for his slippers under the low stone table that supported his coffin. Finally finding them, he slid them one onto his foot, and, hopping up and down, he made his way down the hall, still putting on his left slipper.

Curtea Domneasca was a frigid place, especially in the early autumn, when the days began to cool, but the servants still felt that a fire would be too frivolous. Even early autumn, in Bucharest, was freezing, in his opinion. Dracula admired the ghostly apparitions for their efficiency, but still despised their insensitivity. They still maintained that the 'great count' was a creature of the night, but, he reasoned, did that stop him from wanting to be warm?

"I think not..." He murmured to himself, smiling. His accent had been present for centuries, and was now fading. It had taken some time to accustom himself to fangs. However, time was one thing that Vlad had lots of. Standing at the top of the regal sweeping, pushing his black hair out his face in an irritated gesture, Vlad looked around guiltily, searching for any of the ghostly apparitions. Seeing no one, he tucked his hair behind his ear, and sat down on the banister, looking innocent.

Hearing no _swish _which advertised the approach of one of the servants, he shrugged, and pushed.

And with that Count Vladislaus Tempes Dracula slid down the long curled banister, picking up more and more speed. Finally, at the bottom of the stairs, Vlad went flying off the end, into the air, and morphing into a bat, and beating his wings, to keep himself from tumbling head over heels through the thick glass windows around him. The large bat, approximately the size of a German shepherd, circled once, and then swooped low, morphing again into the count, who landed on his feet, and made a sweeping bow to an imaginary audience.

The disapproving tutting made Vlad spin around, his hands drawing inwards, wrapping around his own shoulders. Absentmindedly, he tucked his hair behind his pointed ears and shrugged his shoulders. The apparition put the ghostly sleeves of its robe onto where its hips would be, and shook its hood. Dracula walked out of the room, sheepishly, rather more quickly than was strictly speaking dignified.

Dracula walked through the vast halls of the castle, ambling slowly, leaving the castle and strolling out to the moonlit lake. He skipped a rock, jumping it ten times on the water. He climbed a tree, and suddenly froze. Listening intently, eyes shut; he jumped down and began to run.

Running through the forest, he chased his prey. Running faster and faster, he listened hard to the sounds of his quarry. He jumped a brook and leaned forwards, his arms coming up to keep the branches from whipping into his face. He flung himself forwards, finally leaping. His instincts screamed at him to sink his fangs into the neck of the wolf he held pinned beneath him, but he let the creature up, and watched it slink warily off through the underbrush.

Wandering in the other direction, he listened again, and with a cry resumed his hunting. Finally, blood thirsting quenched, he walked back towards the castle, enjoying the feeling of his heart beating, albeit slowly, as it did only after he had fed on the living.

Vlad strode quickly out into the yard. He walked through the courtyard, and running into the stable, mounted his horse. Riding quickly, he galloped away from the castle he had occupied for the past centuries. Vlad passed several cars on the road, none of whom so much as slowed down at seeing the strangely pale man galloping down the road on a black stallion, wearing black pants and sweater.

Dracula launched himself off his horse, leaving the well trained creature, a Kelpie, in fact, to find its way back to the castle. Soaring as a bat high into the sky, Dracula flew until his wings ached, and he more crashed then landed into his court yard. He staggered slightly, but righted himself. He started walking back up to the castle, trying in vain yet again to whistle, a skill that had eluded him since fangs had become a part of his mouth.

Wrapping his arms around his shoulders, trying to preserve the little warmth left after his long flight, Vlad walked quickly up to the coffin chamber, racing the sun he could sense creeping over the horizon. Shutting the door after himself and barring it, Dracula walked up to his wife's coffin, which was already shut. Trailing his hand along the wood, he walked to his own coffin. Awkwardly balancing himself on the rim, he lowered himself backwards, and pulled his feet in afterwards. Twisting, he lay down, and pulled the lid on after himself.

Shutting his eyes, Dracula a smiled a carnivorous smile, folding his arms in their traditional, comfortable position. As the light spilled over the coffin, sending him into a deep comatose state, he reflected once again to himself, as he had for the past hundred years since his mortality had been painfully driven home;

_Pron pipÄit tocmai acela la a fi nosferatu._

I am very lucky to be a vampire.


End file.
